


Blank Invitation

by Platinumroyal



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Death, happy birthday ibara!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Platinumroyal/pseuds/Platinumroyal
Summary: The stars had burned out, before he could ever realize.//happy birthday ibara!





	Blank Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> mentions of hypothetical death, and some vague dissociation that ends before anything actually happens. please turn back if you're not comfortable with those things!

The train ride is a long one.

Much longer than he remembers, in fact. Perhaps it is due to the sprawling, inky emptiness that unfolds neverendingly outside of the grimy window to his right. There are no glimmers of light outside, no defining landmarks that would serve to orient him in any direction, no signs of the stars or the moon or life itself. It is strange, not being able to tilt his head up and see the faint beacons of starlight painted above him, after he had gotten so used to being able to do so. There were merits to living for so long in the middle of nowhere, in a place where no one was meant to see him. He used to peer out his window, on particularly sleepless nights, and stare up at the canvas of night. More often than not, on those occasions, he would have his sole company slink right up to his side, blabbering on and on about ancient star charts and military campaigns with soldiers directed by nothing but their knowledge of the empty heavens. It was soothing, in a strange way. They had planned on fleeing that place one day, guided by the stars just like their predecessors had before them, to carve out their own destiny marked only by the trails of starlight up above.

Tonight, it is overcast. He hasn't heard any weather forecasts, not as of late, but something within him tells him that the stars would not be showing anytime soon. Not where is headed, at least.

There is a man, sitting to his left. He does not know who this man is, nor the older woman who has her legs crossed in front of him. He is surrounded by strangers, silhouettes of people who mean nothing to him outside of this singular experience. The incandescent lights inside the train car are dim, as it is very early in the morning, and no one has the desire to speak. No matter where he looks, all he sees is emptiness.

Technically, he is alone.

The notice of his recall and his actual departure had occurred within hours of one another. One moment, he had been called down to his commander's office—not for the first time, as he had his eternal thorn in his side to thank for that, but it had been a while since he had stepped inside that musty room—seemingly out of nowhere, right after dinner. He brought with him a sense of foreboding, the feeling of knowing he had done nothing out of line, but could get into trouble regardless, as his commander barked at him to enter. Somehow, he had managed to push to the back of his mind why he had been training at the military camp for so long in the first place. That there was going to be an end to his tenure, eventually. His commander stamped his seal onto a thick packet of papers, he had been told to sign on a few dotted lines, and had been given ten minutes to fetch his meager belongings, all under watchful eye. By the time the car door clicked itself shut, the others were just beginning to meander out of the mess hall. And that had been that.

The days had become so repetitive, with no indication at all from his so-called family or his employers. His only companion in this world had honeyed him with the temptation of eternal freedom, just beyond the fields of their entrapment, whether that freedom was to come with escape or death. Now, as he sits alone in the train car, that nectar has transformed into venom, a thick poison flushing through his veins. How dare they summon him back now, after years of absolute radio silence? Did they find him to be a pet dog, expect him to come running back at the snap of their gloved fingers? Had their leash and collar been locked around his neck this whole time, even after being abandoned, just so they could strangle him when they got the chance?

He feels sick.

The train is too quiet. There is too much of nothing surrounding him, choking him, a heavy white noise filling his head and buzzing right behind his eyes. He instinctively grips the armrest, his perfectly trimmed nails digging into the worn fabric and cheap foam. The seat underneath him feels too hard, the air is too thick, and the absolute lack of stimulation begins to break him. There are no other people on the train at all—only corpses, being held in place by rigor mortis. He is in the morgue, he has already died, that abrupt call during dinner had actually been a gunshot straight into his forehead, and his brain was tricking him into thinking that he was somehow still alive. He needs to fix this.

His legs are shaky as he raises himself off the seat, standing now. Whatever food he had eaten at his last supper was threatening to spill out of him, but he blinks his eyes and scans the car regardless. There had to be an exit, freedom, a place where he could end it—

The knuckles on his left hand are completely white, as he has desperately tethered himself to the armrest. He feels his vision begin to blur.

They hit a bump in the tracks, suddenly. His knees knock into the underside of his seat, from the recoil. Something soft hits his head.

It’s the bear. It must have tumbled out of his luggage, precariously dangling from the rack above the seats. He recalls two things:

Pulling the stuffed animal, haggard after so many years of clutching it tightly through his dreamless nights, right off his bunk bed and tossing it down into the duffel bag. Tucking the corners of his supplied blanket into his mattress, not wanting to leave a mess, despite the rush. A cackling voice, from not a few weeks ago, chiding him for still sleeping with the thing, at his age.  _Aren't you supposed to be all mature, Your Highness_?

Ibara's voice in his mind stings. It hasn't been twelve hours yet, and loneliness already has caught him. He never thought the day would come, where he would miss the bratty antics of his companion, the feeling of wanting to knock some sense into him someday, the desire to chide him for ever thinking that no one wanted him. Ibara had bit into his heart, infected him with his attitude and raw need for human connection. As the years piled up, he convinced himself that when he got out, Ibara would be there with him. He likes projects, deep down—the act of cleaning and scrubbing away until something pristine and pure was left behind. He never got to finish.

It dawns on him, finally, that he never actually said goodbye. He feels awful, but he imagines that Ibara will feel worse. His fangs were empty now, after all.

Another memory, this one deeper in the recesses of his mind, is dragged up to the surface. A tearstained face, loud hiccups and sobs, and little arms (smaller than his) clinging to his waist for dear life. Candy-colored hair, perfectly maintained, all ruffled up as it pressed into his chest. The calm voice of one of the older servants, passing along a stuffed bear, bowtie tied around its neck, and those tiny hands presenting it to him like it was their final farewell. The pinky promise to keep it safe.

He picks it up off the floor, before it can be dirtied further. Military camp was rough on the poor thing enough.

The woman in front of him coughs.

Hesitantly, he blinks back into reality. One of the lights above his head flickers a few times, then goes out with a soft pop. He sits back down, clutching the bear in his arms, and rests his forehead up against the cool glass of the window.

Belatedly, he realizes that tomorrow is his birthday. Not that he had anything planned, of course, but it was another year to tick off on his biological clock. One more milestone before he was free—well, not anymore, of course.

He squeezes his eyes shut, combing through his brain to try and remember when Ibara's was.

He can't recall.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday ibara!!! i wasnt goint to write anything, but suddenly i was stuck by *leo voice* inspiration and so here we are.
> 
> this is a companion fic to Afterparty! read that one too, if you'd like :>
> 
> as always, find me on twit @harmonyleaf


End file.
